


Fulgurite

by Zimraphel



Series: tolkien ficlets [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: short drabble with maximum suffering impact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29522697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimraphel/pseuds/Zimraphel
Summary: Maedhros stumbles into the fiery chasm.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: tolkien ficlets [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042965
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	Fulgurite

At last the Light is in his hands. 

He holds it with both. He doesn’t have to; but pain is a simple anchor in a world that has washed away almost entirely with the invasion of Sea and time. If he is screaming he doesn’t hear it. His pain is another’s; and they’re only distantly related. He stumbles forward only because the wind moves him this way and that, feeling already half-substantial. He presses down upon it, the sharp corners of the stone catching, feels the contours of a hand. 

He is very old.

He is older now than his grandfather was when he was struck down by lightning, what remained a twisted mangled pool of melting sand and metal turned to branching glass. He wonders now what happened to those delicate branches, to that strange tree that grew such fruits of suffering. 

He stumbles on a flash of white in the dun sand, the light stretched before him; takes a low bow like a supplicant before the fire. The world is full of fragment and sharp wreckage. What remains is without wonder or memory. The last dregs of song exist only as echo. What survives does not return. 

Fingon’s bones are somewhere out there, he knows, beneath the great green heap of the death they made of themselves. Impossible to identify. Now he perhaps at last wrenching free, washing out into far deep waters. Now perhaps away from him one final time. 

The wind howls; or he does. His voice is an instrument played by other hands. His body is a puzzle put together badly, jostled by old grief. 

The wind howls; he doesn’t hear. The wind howls. The earth is crumbling beneath his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Both hands; one of his hands is a phantom pain hand; hence the feeling only one catch on the stone.


End file.
